RENDER THE SALAD UNTO CAESAR!!!

photo by Andrey Belenko	via PhotoRee

It took quite some time for Columnist Ed's blog entry to reach my desk this week.  I'll have to ask him to stop sending them to me via Pony Express:

Another weekend of alcoholic debauchery, and another week-long of recovery.  This time from what can only be described as "Hill-a-Palooza," a weekend with our long lost friends “the Hill’s” that started on Thursday morning and ended Sunday evening.  I don’t remember much from all the parties, though I do recall putting out some lady-killer nostril flares and, of course, that one moment when the boss-man stood shirtless – yuck -- on the top of a table and proclaimed “Render the Salad Unto Caesar!!!,” before flopping belly first into a swimming pool.

I’m not sure it had the desired effect, though I’m not sure what the desired effect really was meant to be.  On the flip side, I learned something new this weekend: Namely, if you’re going to mix hot wings and vodka, it's best to have eye-wash handy.  And some waders.  And a pipe scowl.  This may not make sense to you now, but believe me it'll help you greatly if you find yourself in a similar predicament.

But hey, this is a football column, right?  So if we’re going to talk about partying we should really start with Spurs, a team that must have been livin’ it up this past weekend considering how poorly they played against last place Wigan.  Even Uncle Harry had a bad day, putting Van der Vaart wide right and Luka Modric wide left, only to find them consistently cozied up together in the middle of the field alongside the two guys that were supposed to be playing in the middle of the field.  It got crazy how many Spurs decided to occupy this small strip of central pitch.  I recall at one point there being about six or seven at the top of Wigan’s goal box, all of them looking and waiting for a pass.  As for the right and left flank, you could lie there and read some federally subsidized Cowboy poetry and no one would have come close to you.

Wigan also had the better of the game's chances, and frankly Spurs were lucky to get away with a nil-nil tie.  Which reminds me just how bad the Spurs need a striker to start scoring, and just how badly they need Gareth Bale threatening on the wing.  I think Spurs are beginning to show why they are just below the first tier in the EPL, and that they don’t have the manpower to compete in more than one competition.  They can do well in the Champions League, or they can do well in the EPL, but they have a hard time doing well in both.

Manchester United, however, have no problem putting on a show week after week.  I could almost hear the irritating victory yell of Mr. “It’s probably hard too hear over the deafening sound of my Awesomeness!!!” farlieonfootie when United came back against the lowly Hammers.  Of course, it’s easier to come back against the Hammers when you can literally put about a half-dozen top flight finishers on the field when the going gets bad.  I should add that the Red Devils were aided by a tough hand ball call against the Hammers.

I should also add that the Red Devils defense looked particularly bad all day, especially Smalling, though even Vidic had a tough one of it since the referee decided to call him for his constant holding, tugging,  shoving and tripping.  Fortunately for United, Wayne Rooney’s profanity laced hat trick rescued them from what could have been a disaster.  I have to admit, though, that Rooney is as exciting a player as there is in the EPL, and his return to form should be greeted by anyone who loves the game, even if it is occasionally profanity laced.

As for Blackpool, well, it was a sorry effort for a team that’s simply running out of gas.  Charlie Adam seemed half-interested, as did most of the team that put up a big "L" against Fulham.  The only nice part about the game was the unsolicited Love the announcers gave to the best American in the EPL, Clint Dempsey.  That, and the good run of it put up by old man Damian Duff.  I remember years gone by when Duff seemed almost dominant, but now at 32 he seems – not unlike the “deafening” boss-man -- to age by the minute.  (Sorry, boss, some guy named Carlos told me he’d give me a signed shin-guard if I put that last shot in.)

This is farlionfootie for April 8.